


Bump In The Night

by heavenbows



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses, Rise of the Guardians (2012), Tangled (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 21:30:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heavenbows/pseuds/heavenbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rapunzel is hidden in her tower, but nowhere is truly safe from fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bump In The Night

**Author's Note:**

> My thought process when I first wrote this could more or less be summed up as "What the fuck did I just write" and I think that's still applicable now.

Her breath hitches in that odd mix of pleasure-pain she is growing to crave as long grey fingers tweaked her nipple, which stands erect from fear as much as arousal. Through half-closed eyes, she sees shadows dance across pale skin, only to be entwined with – or fought by, she cannot tell which – swirls of gold.

“Wh—what are you...” she manages to begin, only to be cut off by darkness curling around her lips, binding her mouth as surely as a gag, though it should be as insubstantial as smoke.

“Now, now,” a soft, dangerous voice chides her at her ear. “I thought you would know better by now about not speaking unless you can manage not to mumble.”

_Let me go!_ Rapunzel wants to scream it; made mute as she is, she must resort to looking up at him as well as she can – for he stands behind her, melting into the darkness of her bedroom – and using her eyes to communicate the sentiment. She should know better by now than to expect pity, though, and the low, cruel laugh she gets for her efforts reminds her of it.

“When the fun is just beginning? When it is you who always, _always_ begs? I think not, little one.”

As he speaks, five more grey fingers slide – teasingly soft, deceptively caressing – down her abdomen. They play in the contours between her ribs; pinch and kiss at her stomach; spread out appreciatively over the curve of her hips... And, inching closer to their prize, finally twine into the dark hair between her legs.

“What a pretty blush,” he remarks, for she is indeed blushing; a deep red flush of shame for allowing this to happen. For not protecting herself as Mother instructed. For, deep down, as much as she tries to reject the notion, enjoying this – or, rather, what it is on the verge of becoming.

“Please,” she tries to say, but it comes out as nothing more than an incomprehensible burble, and she fancies the gag becomes even tighter, restricting her breath. Her heart flutters faster with fear. Every time this happens, she wonders if he will kill her at the end of it – and wonders whether that would really be worse than being left with the scars and stains that not even her hair can remove.

Yet, somehow, he seems to understand her. The fingers still. His breath is icy cold on her ear, and raises gooseflesh on her skin.

“Please what?” he murmurs, for all that he chides her for mumbling. “Please go on?” A pause, as though he waits for her to reply. Hope blooms and she shakes her head quickly. “Please stop?” Now she nods. “Ah, now I see.”

Again her heart flutters, although for once with hope of escape rather than fear of further loss. Will he really let her go? Can it be that this is really the end of it all, the misery and fear and—

A cry breaks free from her lips, loud and shameful, barely hindered by the gag. In fact, as soon as her lips part for the moan, the shadows dissipate; why should they remain, when he now has what he wants? As he works and plays her like an instrument he knows every knob and string of. Squirm though she might, struggle though she may, even she barely knows whether it is to defy or encourage him. Warmth blooms in her core and she throws her head back against his shoulder, hips bucking, thighs growing wet from sweat and something else, something she has no name for.

She has no name for any of this.

“S—stop!” she gasps; yet she grinds herself against his hand. “S—stop—stop— _please_!”

“I already did.” Although far more composed than she is, there is a gasp in _his_ voice. His lips find the neck she has so brazenly displayed for him, licking and nipping and finally _biting_. No lover’s teasing here; he draws blood and slowly licks his lips as he listens to her scream. “I stopped _teasing_ you and gave you what you wanted.”

“I—I—I don’t…” Another yelp as he finds _that spot_ and caresses it slowly and deliberately.

“Tsk, tsk, what a _promiscuous_ girl. Your dear mother thinks to keep you safe—“ She could swear he chuckles at the exact moment her chest contracts at the thought of Mother finding her like this, as though he knows her very thoughts. “Safe from the world, for fear of your life. Perhaps she ought to fear something else. If a man came here, would you let him in, for this? Would you let him hurt you in exchange for pleasure? Would you give him your hair for a good, hard _fuck_?”

“N—no! _No_!” But, oh, she is so afraid that he’s _right_. That Mother’s work is all for naught for such a wicked girl as her. She pants – and he seems to grow more agitated along with her.

“You would.”

“ _Never_!”

“You _would_.”

“I… I…”

“You know it,” he whispers, so quietly she has to strain to hear. “You are nothing that she thinks you are. You deceive her with every look, every breath. She has given everything and you give nothing. You are a liar and a cheat and you deserve nothing, _nothing_.”

The tears come then; he always brings them, in the same, merciless way and, like always, he leans it to lap at them. She flinches away from his tongue, dry and rasping on her cheek, but he manages to hold her firm. She cries as he holds her, nails biting into her skin and leaving half-moons of blood. She cries as he continues, all the while, to work her into a frenzy she cannot resist. She cries as he brings her to a sobbing, hateful finish and then cups her cheek with _that hand_ , smearing the clear, wet substance that comes from her across her lips, her face. She cries at the lie of his gentleness, like silk over a steel rod.

But, most of all, she cries as he fades away into the shadows; the relief of being left, the loneliness of being alone, the horror of it all and, always, the knowledge that tomorrow night will be the same.


End file.
